


Nothing I Can Offer You

by Herbrarian



Series: New Orders [15]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Atonement - Freeform, Callier Massacre, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Dragon Age Quest: Revelations, Ensemble Cast, F/M, Goodbyes, Grey Wardens, Guilt, Loss, Prison, Regrets, Skyhold, Sunburst Throne, The Chant, The Game, Val Royeaux, war council
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-19
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-10-07 14:27:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 10,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10362477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Herbrarian/pseuds/Herbrarian
Summary: Previously: Thom has intercepted a message from the Capital and his past flashes before his eyes as his future sits down next to him in the Rest.It was always going to end like this.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Your anchor is up, you've been swept away_  
>  _And the greatest of teachers won't hesitate_  
>  _To leave you there, by yourself, chained to fate_  
>  \- "I Alone" [**Live**](https://youtu.be/FNrQOUtXYOo)

Thom cinches his belt, watching Dorothea breathe in the moonlight. Maker, when he thought he’d sleep in the barn so he could slip away, he never thought he would be slipping away with her there. He doesn’t bother to look in the lonely closet he had called his room: he hasn’t held on to anything special that couldn’t be kept on his person in years.

He casts an eye about the loft, spies Blackwall’s badge. He knows if he’s going to convince her he’s gone, off to be a hero, to die nobly, he should take this badge of office, _his_ badge, with him.

He rubs the griffon wing with a calloused thumb, tracing the soar of the wings. He cannot take it to Val Royeaux. When he’s taken into custody, it will cause too many questions, too likely to connect him back to the Inquisition now that Dorothea has banned the Wardens. He would have to throw it away on the road. It would not be right. Blackwall—the man Gordon Blackwall was and the man Thom tried to be—that Blackwall deserves better than to have his memory tossed away over a mountain pass.

He quietly crosses to her moonlit form and lays it near her hip where her hand will find it when she goes to feel for him in the morning.

He wants to bend down and kiss her, rub his hand against her cheek, feel the taut leanness of her flank push into him. But if he does, he’ll never leave, and he will have to tell her everything: he knows himself too well to think that is even possible. Instead, he drinks in the sight of her. Maker, she is beautiful. So much power, so much authority, and it had all been his for the having. He could have died being Gordon Blackwall, her Gordon Blackwall.

But he had never really succeeded in killing Thom Rainier.

He turns and moves to the stairs out of the loft. The man she loves is a lie, all she has known from him was a lie. If he leaves, perhaps, if he is just gone, then she will not have to realize who he is. He thinks perhaps the man he was trying to be, a noble man, will remain.

_And she will still love me_.

He collects his cloak from downstairs, saddles his horse, leads it out the gate, nodding to the night guard. Old habits die hard and he starts to hesitate, to bribe them to keep his departure a secret, but halts himself in time. The man they know would never bribe them.

He turns to cross the causeway, nods a simple acknowledgement at the tower guard and begins to walk the path away from the fortress. He disciplines himself not to kick his horse into a gallop. Before long he descends through the lower camp, rides out, into the dawn, seeking the pass out of the Frostbacks to Val Royeaux.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Oh Lord, Oh Lord, what have I done?_  
>  _I’ve fallen in love with a man on the run_  
>  _Oh Lord, Oh Lord, I’m begging you please_  
>  _Don’t take that sinner from me_  
>  \- "Devil's Backbone" [**The Civil Wars**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YTb6MoMLvcY)

Dorothea reads the note Leliana’s clerk hands her. Cyril Mornay? The name means nothing to her.

“You have found nothing else?” she speaks sharply.

“No, Inquisitor. The Spymaster asked that I convey her desire for you to stop to see her. She wishes to speak on why the report may have gone missing. She suggested meeting in the Ambassador’s office.” The clerk bows and absently she nods her assent, says she’ll be behind him in about five minutes, dismisses him with a gesture of her hand.

Her head pounds. Stepping further into the dim of the barn, she rubs at the middle of her forehead. Her other hand moves to her pocket and, casting a discrete glance over her shoulder, pulls out the note that she found this morning. Quickly, she moves her mind through last night. He was difficult, mentioning old fears of not being enough. She has dealt with him often enough when he acts this way, dwelling in old fears she thinks long put aside. So many times she has assured him she knows the life of a Grey Warden is not solely his own . . . neither is hers.

_Gordon, you make it all so bearable. Don’t leave me here alone._

She sobs and swallows the cry that wants to leave her throat. She pushes down the desire to flee that floods her gut. This does not make sense without him here. Hot tears press out between her lids. She breathes deeply. If she falls to pieces now, she’ll never get back up.

He said he was sorry. Why would he be sorry unless duty called him, if had no choice but to leave? What could make him feel so alone? Her mind flies and she thinks back over the last night, scrubbing away tears from her face.

_No life with him as a Warden; there is something he must do, must find, and he could not be here to do it, could not do it with me._

She is wiping her face, sniffling, when she hears someone step into the gloom.

“Dorothea, _Speciosa_ , what is this about our burly warrior?” Dorian calls in a grand, sing-song tone. She turns to face him and he looks alarmed at her tear-ravaged eyes, her red nose. He shakes a handkerchief out of a chest pocket and crosses to her. “Dorothea, what is it? Is what Varric says true? Is he gone?”

“Oh, Dorian,” she wipes at her nose and blots her eyes, “I think he must be in trouble,” and she hands her note to Dorian. He quickly scans the few lines and looks up at her, astonishment in his face. “Why else would he leave, Dorian? He is part of us, he believes in what we are doing, he cannot leave, he cannot—” she begins to well into tears again and Dorian puts his arm around her shoulders, pulls her into the lee of his chest. “He cannot leave me, Dorian, he would not,” she whispers into his shoulder.

Dorian rubs her arm, anchors her with lips to the crown of head, makes wordless shushing murmurs. He waits for Dorothea to calm. Eventually her breathing slows; she feels him muster himself and begin to speak. “He is a Warden without an Order, my dear; after Adamant, perhaps he could not stay, . . . “

“No.” Dorothea snaps her head up, a grimace on her face. “You cannot be suggesting to me that I did this, you will not stand there and tell me—” her voice is rising, hysteria creeping in to her tone.

“No, no, my _Speciosa_. Gordon himself told you that Adamant was necessary, the Wardens were so broken. But this note, there was something he was holding on to, something he needed to do that could hurt, hurt you. Perhaps it is best to let him go, _Speciosa_.” Dorian holds her hands, his eyes pleading for her to hear him.

She does, after a fashion. She clings to the idea that Gordon needed to work for the Wardens, “Yes, yes; the Wardens must need him, need his aid. I wanted to help him, to reach out to King Alistair, find a way to rebuild, but he always insisted that I was taking too much on, not to worry.” She sets aside Dorian’s other hints: Gordon wouldn’t betray her, he could never do that.

“And perhaps so you are. He is a grown man, Dorothea, with a life and a mission of his own. He was always going to have this in front of him. It may be time, my darling, to let him go, to trust his sense of duty.” Dorian beseeches her: “He will return if he can.”

“I know he is doing something to protect us, I know it. I cannot just leave him to do it. If he is in trouble—and he must be to leave like this, with no word and no,” she swallows, “no promise of return.” Unsettled, she pulls away and begins to pace. Her mind drifts to cryptic half sentences and hinted past crimes. She shakes her head in negation: “It has to be Warden business, everything else they leave behind, it doesn’t matter what he’s done,” she babbles. Dorian looks confused, starts to interrupt. But Dorothea places her hands on his shoulders, says, “I don’t care, he’s good, he’s patient, he’s all I have. We have to help him, Dorian.”

Her friend sighs and slightly purses his mouth in resignation, “Then we should find the Nightingale, my dearest,” he places a kiss on her forehead, “and trust in the Maker.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Now you've hit a wall and you're lost for words_  
>  _My dear, my dear, my dear_  
>  _Now you've hit a wall and you hit it hard_  
>  _My dear, my dear, oh dear_  
>  -"The Silence", [Bastille](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_7SAsNTNX9g)

“But what does it mean, Leliana? Where has he gone?”

Josephine’s voice is agitated as she hisses the question to Leliana. The bard stands staring into the fire. Josephine recognizes the look on the woman’s face, but Josephine is in no mood to be played, “Leliana, if you do not let me help—”

The door slams open, interrupting Josephine and the Inquisitor comes in, followed closely by Dorian.

“Josie, Leliana, I want to leave for Val Royeaux within the hour,” the Inquisitor looks directly to Leliana, her stance a challenge to meet her eye, “that is where he has gone, Leliana?” Her voice is accusatory, bordering on shrill.

“Dorothea, we do not know anything,” Dorian tries to placate her, calm the woman. Of all the inner circle, Josephine is grateful that Dorian is who found Dorothea first. “You must slow down, _Speciosa_. You do not even know if he is in trouble, we do not know anything.” Dorian cajoles in a soft, pleading tone.

“Yes, Inquisitor,” Josephine crosses to Dorothea, “We will find Warden Blackwall. But we first must find where he has gone. A few days,” Josephine takes Dorothea’s hands in her own and leads her to the settee, “just to find if he went east or west. You would not want to set off in the wrong direction.” Josephine’s tone is soothing. “We will find him,” she sits next to the Inquisitor, “he will not have left.”

At that statement, Dorothea’s eyes go wide and her jaw firms as she swallows hard. Behind her, Dorian catches Josephine’s eye and nods his head slightly in negation. Josephine sees it from her peripheral vision, does not acknowledge Dorian, striving not to alarm Dorothea at the contradiction of hope.

But it is for naught as, at the sight of Dorian’s shake, Leliana moves from her silent sentinel at the fireplace and crosses to the door without a word. The movement jars Dorothea and she snatches her hands out of Josephine’s lap.

“Inquisitor!” Josephine calls, but Dorothea is on her feet before Dorian can pull at her arm. Dorothea calls after Leliana as she crosses out of Josephine’s office and moves into the Great Hall. “Dorian! We must stop her!” Josephine gasps. “The Dairsmuid delegation is present; we cannot let them witness this!”

Dorian’s eyes widen and he turns, just ahead of Josephine as they follow out the doors. Josephine reaches the Great Hall in time to see the Inquisitor pull open the door to Solas’ study.

“My Lady Josephine, was that the Inquisitor? Why ever is she chasing the Lady Leliana?”

Josephine stops to divert Lady Besha Coelho away from the door that Dorian hurries; she watches him gesture at Varric and both of them disappear. “Lady Besha, I assure you all is well. If you would be so good as to come through to my study, I am just about to have tea brought in for us so we can meet on the state of the Circle in Dairsmuid.” Josephine smiles broadly, gesturing the Rivaini delegate and the Rivaini secretary into the office with one hand and motioning aside her own clerk with the other. She turns to her clerk as the delegates disappear into her office: “Tea, now, and some of the small, sticky cakes; I know cook has them in, I saw the accounts from this week’s shipments,” she murmurs and flicks her fingers in a snap to indicate her impatience.

Josephine turns to the Lady Besha, entreats her forgiveness so Josephine may locate the Lady Seeker and Mother Giselle, and then the Ambassador carefully flees the office, pulling the door firmly behind her. She pauses by two guards, sending one in search of the two women and instructs the other to wait on her guests—“and make sure they stay away from my desk”—and then Josephine heads directly across the hall, the embodiment of composure. She calmly opens and closes the door behind her. Once the door is safely closed behind her and she is alone in the stairwell, she steadily takes the steps two at a time. When she reaches the landing she pauses, breathing heavily, smooths her skirts, and opens the door to the rotunda.

As she does, Varric hurries past her, saying: “Shit is happening, Ruffles. I don’t think I’ve seen Dorothea this pissed since the Seeker told her she needed to stop picking up shards and get back to closing the Breach.” Josephine sucks in a breath and follows him. As she enters the stairs into the rookery, she instructs the scout at the base to clear the tower and to find the Commander. She turns and rounds the corner to see Dorothea and Leliana squaring off, Dorian hovering just behind the Inquisitor, his hand almost on her elbow, hesitation in every line of his body.

“I do not appreciate the tone, Inquisitor, if I knew something definitive about Warden Blackwall, I assure you I would share it. As it is,” Leliana breathes out the sentence, her control thin, “I have given you everything I have, my birds,” and here Leliana gestures beyond her shoulder to the dovecote and the cages, “have been launched, but it will be the better part of a day before I know anything more.”

“Inquisitor,” Josephine steps forward, “Leliana and I will do everything we can to find more, but you must allow us time.”

The Inquisitor turns and looks solidly at Josephine, eyes flashing sharply, anger just below the surface: “Time may be something we do not have.”

“Time is never something we have, my dear Inquisitor,” the imperious voice of the Lady Vivienne rings out behind her and Josephine sees Dorothea’s eyes swivel to the regal mage. “It is something we merely ride through the trials of life and the Game.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean, Vivienne?” Dorothea slices out.

“It means, my dear, that the Warden was always living on borrowed time. Perhaps the glass has simply run out of sand. May I suggest a cup of tea to calm your nerves?” The Iron Lady stills as she delivers her proclamation and Josephine balances on the balls of her feet, ready to intercept Dorothea if she advances on the other mage. Josephine entreats Andraste to send the Seeker or the Commander to them soon as she feels the hairs on her neck rise.

_Blessed Maker, not magic; not here; not now._

Dorothea narrows her eyes and Josephine sees Dorian lean in to the Inquisitor, whisper in her ear, his hand firmly on her arm. Dorothea loosens her shoulders lightly, rolling them, and then spins and suddenly turns away from him to move further into the rookery. The air is still except for the lonely sound of rustled wings above them. Josephine risks a glance over at Madame de Fer: the court mage tilts her head at Josephine almost imperceptibly in acknowledgement. It dawns on Josephine that the Lady Vivienne has blocked the only exit out of the rookery and is the sole barrier to keeping Dorothea from ranging around the keep in her agitated state. Josephine exhales slightly.

They all wait for a moment, no one ready to break the silence that has descended now that Dorothea stands over Leliana’s worktable, supporting the weight of her body on her fists. A steady thud and slight jangle prods into Josephine’s consciousness and Leliana shifts slightly toward the railing, peering into the dimness. The Nightingale’s eyes track whoever moves below for a mere moment and then Leliana moves to lean against the wall next to the Andrastian shrine, one foot propped against the stones as she leans her back into the wall.

Cassandra crests the stairs into the room. She sweeps her eyes across all of the parties present. The Lady Vivienne blocks her entrance slightly with her wide stance and the Seeker clears her throat menacingly at the mage’s shoulder. Vivienne looks slightly to Josephine, a look in her eye she cannot decipher, and then saunters away from the stairwell as if choosing to do so and not because the Seeker looms behind her. “Josephine, you sent for me?” Cassandra asks as she stalks into the room, glancing piercingly over to Leliana who absently looks to the floor, her arms crossing her chest, a hum from her pursed lips almost tangible on the air.

“Yes, Lady Seeker,” Josephine approaches the warrior, “Mother Giselle . . . ?” Josephine asks quietly.

“In your office, keeping the countess from here,” the Seeker returns as quietly and looks to Varric who nods almost imperceptibly and moves to the stairs and begins to lightly trip down them. “What has happened and why are we in the Rookery and not the War Room?” Cassandra’s voice is clear and commanding. Josephine begins to explain, but Dorothea beats her to it.

“Gordon has left, Cassandra; the Nightingale does not _know_ to where,” Dorothea pulls out the word, taunting.

“Do _you_ know where he has gone, Dorothea?” Cassandra challenges and Josephine sees Dorian mouth an obscenity.

The Inquisitor drops her head at that, bobbing from side to side.

“Inquisitor?” Cassandra demands.

“He may be in Val Royeaux, Seeker,” Dorian answers softly, looking to Leliana.

Cassandra eyes him speculatively as if deciding whether or not to interrogate him when Leliana speaks up: “It is all we may know, Cassandra, and it is not much. A man named Cyril Mornay is to be executed by the Crown next week for an old crime. The report went missing unnoticed from the weekly intake out of Orlais. My clerk found it in Blackwall’s rooms this morning after the Warden disappeared,” Leliana crosses toward the tableau, standing adjacent to Dorothea. “It is the only thing we know for certain.”

Josephine looks between the Seeker and the Nightingale. That is an understatement for their situation. The three of them share a secret that what they _don’t_ know for certain is if their Warden is any such thing. It is an idea that they have scarcely breathed to each other, but there have been too many signs, too many details that do not make sense, too many unanswered questions from the King of Ferelden in coded messages to the Nightingale.

The sound of heavy boots and armor moving up the stairs draws all three of their eyes to the base of the tower so Josephine misses Dorothea’s sudden turn and movement. “Then if it is what we know, I am going to Val Royeaux. Dorian; Vivienne; you will both come with me, and Varric,” Dorothea pauses slightly, sees the absence of the dwarf, utters a frustrated growl, and begins to descend the tower to find him.

From the corner of her eye Josephine can see the Commander enter the Library. Cassandra motions to him to block the way to Solas’s study. Josephine runs quickly down the steps, her eyes following the agitated figure of the Inquisitor, her voice calling out for caution and patience.

“No,” Dorothea calls over her shoulder, “I will not wait, if this is the Game, if this is the Calling, if this is just pique, I will not wait to see if he washes up dead for want of help. I will go to the capital and _I_ will find what there is to know.” This last Dorothea throws up to Leliana who looks down over the railing to the Inquisitor, the Nightingale’s mouth pursed in consternation.

“Where are you going? Who needs help?” the Commander demands.

“Gordon is gone and I am following, Commander, please get out of my way.”

Cullen looks over her head to Cassandra who meets his eyes, gesturing with her hands an idea that Josephine cannot grasp. “Of course, Inquisitor, but you will need reinforcements,” he responds slowly, voice reasonable as his eyes shift from Cassandra who nods almost imperceptibly at his word choice. “What will you be facing in Val Royeaux, Inquisitor?”

Dorothea stilts to a halt, the question taking the air out of her. Dorian moves to her side, rubs at her shoulder, tries to pull her into a chair to pause, to consider. “I don’t know, Commander.” Her voice sounds lost to Josephine, fragile in a way she doesn’t think she has ever heard Dorothea be. “I had thought Vivienne for her connections,” Cullen nods his appreciation at the choice, “Varric for his contacts, and Dorian.” Dorothea’s voice falters slightly, trailing into quiet.

The Commander looks from Josephine to Cassandra, a question on his face, but it is Vivienne who voices it for them, “Is that wise, darling? A Tevene in the middle of the capital? Must we always make an entrance?”

Dorian lifts his head to retort back to Vivienne, but a slight gesture from the Iron Lady stills him. The Altus looks over to the Commander, who returns the glance with the edge of a question on his face. Dorian nods, takes a deep breath, and then exclaims, “She does have a point, dearest, you know how terribly I hate to be windblown. You’ll want to ride hard and I cannot think of a faster rider than the Lady Seeker. Besides,” he chucks Dorothea under the chin to look at him, “Right Hand of the Divine and whatnot; must be worth something,” and he smiles radiantly at Dorothea. “Go find him, dearest,” he kisses her cheek, his hands on her shoulders, and whispers into her ear, “and find your answers.

Josephine watches Dorian step back and push Dorothea toward her, Cullen and Dorian sharing a look of understanding as he does. Josephine puts her arm around the Inquisitor, pulling her toward the stairs, her pace measured, “Let the Commander form an honor guard to escort you. I will occupy the Dairsmuid delegation while you are gone. They need not know the details of this; I will simply identify that you have gone with Ser Blackwall on Warden business for the Inquisition. We will send word to Val Royeaux and Halamshiral asking for the assistance of the Emperor, he will not have retreated to his estates in the North as he still needs to hold the capital. Mme. de Fer will send word as soon as you arrive and we will know more by the time you are there. Let them guide you, Lady Inquisitor; do not do this alone.” By the time she finishes they are in Solas’s study, Cassandra and Cullen walk behind her engaged in a low conversation.

Varric appears out of the shadows of the alcove to the Hall, “Sounds like we’re off, then, Gidget?” At Dorothea’s nod, he returns, “Well, Bianca’s ready; let’s go find our Warden.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _I got caught up by the chase_  
>  _And you got high on every little bit_  
>  _I wish you were the one_  
>  _Wish you were the one that got away_  
>  -"The One That Got Away", [The Civil Wars](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MnkM_ebv9BI)

_Wouldn’t you be happier thinking I was a noble man, a Grey Warden, instead of this?_

It had been a lie, one that he told himself over and over again on the way to Val Royeaux. It was how he got himself out of the valley, down through the pass of the mountains, across the plains to the capital.

Even now, with everything said and done and death waiting in a few mornings, he wishes for her to return so that this isn’t the way it ends.

He had not wanted to know how he would hurt her, how he would disappoint her.

Their last night her touch was gentle and possessive and he had believed for one last moment that he could be enough. For one last moment, he had allowed himself to believe that this could end well.

Instead, he now has this to lament and mourn. It is just another way he has cheated in this life, to claim the love of this woman.

She is all sexy curves, salacious smiles, saucy hips, and sure words that delve into his mind with their confidence and drive. The chase has always been his downfall, the thing he could never resist and Dorothea had been no different.

He never meant for any of this to go this far. He had resisted, sought to deflect, and she had pursued with a driven force.

Redcliffe, Haven, Adamant: each victory drove him further into the illusion. The idea of being her Grey Warden, her warrior, her shield arm, of being hers, even if only for a little while until she realized how worthless he really was.

The idea that the fucking Herald of Andraste would have ever thought he was worth a damn, was worth more than a simple fuck in a lonely night, never occurred to him.

So he had never walked away, assuming that she would leave him behind when she understood he wasn’t special, that he was just a shadow.

But she had stayed.

So he had needed to go.

He was always going to have to leave.

It was odd, then, that it had never occurred to him just how painful it would really be when he had to watch her leave, bars obstructing his view as she turns her back on him and walks out of the prison.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _I can't believe that she don't want to see me,_  
>  _We lived and loved with each other so long._  
>  _I never thought that she really would leave me,_  
>  _But she's gone._  
>  -"Hope She'll Be Happier", [Bill Withers](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sMC-HvTiV4Q)

Thom peers into the gloom at the sound of boots coming toward his cell. It is late morning: his meal won’t come until tonight and his hanging is on the morrow. He can’t begin to imagine who has come to see him.

Light peers into a grate at head level in this dungeon block and he squints as a tall, male, armor-clad figure moves into the light to stand, silhouetted. The great fur overcoat is as distinctive as the golden curls on the man’s head.

“Commander,” Thom croaks out, “you’ll forgive me if I don’t stand.”

Last night, long after Dorothea left, the guards that had brought his meal tray had brought an additional welcome to Orlais. Whether the welcome was for what he had done in the Dales or for what he had done to Dorothea, it was not clear. If he wasn’t to die in the morning, he’d worry more about the blood in his piss.

“Yes. There will be an Inquisition guard here tonight with the Orlesians. It should not happen again,” the Commander says formally into the gloom.

“Thank you,” Thom says simply: it is a kindness, and one he would not have assumed. But, then, the Commander is a kind man. “It is considerate of you.”

A snort of disgust rips through the air and he can see the powerful shoulders of this man tense and fill in the air. “It is not a consideration to you. You will be hanged tomorrow, and I will not see you die in this cell. It would leave a stain on the Inquisition, and it would torture her.”

Thom flinches. Of course. It is important that he die correctly: as a traitor and not someone worthy of pity or compassion.

“I will send a healer down after me, but here,” and the Commander thrusts a potion through the bars of the cell to Thom. He takes the bottle in his hands.

The writing on the label is familiar. It is from his kit that they pulled off him when the guards threw him down here. The writing is Dorothea’s and part of the last batch she made for him.

He uncorks it, throws it down his mouth and throat, swallowing the grief that rises briefly. His eyes are moist. He clears his throat, tries to pass it as a choke. When he’s done, he throws the bottle into the corner by the slop bucket. It shatters, a bright, harsh sound.

“We have possession of your other effects. Is there somewhere I should send them?” The Commander grates out the question.

Thom begins to shake his head no, but he stops. “There is, if you’re offering. There’s a lad, a young man now, in Montfort. Nicolas Blancbois. If you send it to the Semeuse Inn off the market in Montfort, Bernard will be able to find him. He should have it all, anything,” Thom hesitates, “everything Dorothea doesn’t want, Commander.”

The taller man nods, pulls out a pencil and pad from his breast pocket and makes a note. The scratch on paper echoes in the quiet until: “What name will he know you by?”

“Rainier. Thom Rainier, Warden-Recruit.” At the last, Thom sees the Commander freeze. Thom guesses the other man thinks to the Conscription Rights, wonders if Thom will try to sneak out of this again. “Do not worry, Commander. Even if she hadn’t broken them, I wouldn’t call for Conscription now. Now that she’s claimed me in front of Orlais and the Emperor, she has no options but for me to hang. It is better this way. I have burned her up, I won’t cause her more pain.” Thom’s voice is low and filled with regret.

“But you will,” the Commander returns quietly as he pockets his notes. “There will be nothing but pain for her. She cannot even mourn you, for you don’t exist.” The statement is harsh and unrelenting.

The Commander draws himself to his full height, hands clamped behind his back, looming over the cell in the murky gloom. “I have watched you for so long, pull her in and push her away again, only to pull her back. And, Maker damn you, she came every time. You have left her with nothing, not even a memory, not a hope, not even the truth from your own lips. She will have no one, now.”

Thom is grateful for the bars that separate him and the Commander. He doesn’t fear his death now, but if Cullen killed him, Dorothea would never forget it.

“You are right, Cullen,” the young man sucks in a breath of disgust at his name from Thom’s mouth, “on all but one point: she is not alone. You won’t let her be alone, will you?” Thom raises his eyes to seek the other man’s gaze in the gloom. Thom struggles to keep his tone neutral, but he fails, cannot keep the pleading from his tone. “I know you care for her, may be I knew it longer than you have, but you’ll protect her,” —it isn’t a question— “you’ll move armies to protect her.”

In the dim light, Thom can finally focus on the other man’s face. The Commander’s lips firm with disgust, the scar on his lip causing it to curl in his revulsion.

“Good-bye, Rainier. May the Maker forgive you,” and the Commander of the Inquisition stalks out of the dungeon without looking back at him.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _You got to go there by yourself_  
>  _Oh, you got to ask the lord's forgiveness_  
>  _Nobody else can ask him for you_  
>  \- "The Lonesome Valley", [The Fairfield Four](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mtg0C3gx44k)

Cassandra stands in the small office, her arms crossed before her as she watches the captain of the guard complete his paperwork. She has not failed to notice the conspicuous absence of a Chantry Mother to perform Last Absolution. She pauses briefly in her mind to assess if the Chantry has descended into such chaos as not to provide basic services here, in their bastion of power; but her instinct says it is Gord--.

She stops short, mid-thought.

 _Not Gordon. Thom._ _It is Thom who has refused._

Restless, she moves toward the window that looks out to the market courtyard below. The Lover’s Alcove is beneath her vantage point and she drifts absently to thoughts of Regalyan and a bright, warm day many years before. The captain behind her slams closed a ledger and the Temple pushes into her thought. Briefly she just catches the scent of ichor in the air; forces herself to still and reassess the stench as rising damp and urine. A breeze comes in the window, moving through to the cells, and the odor dissipates.

The captain looks up at her, “Lady Seeker, the paperwork is finished. We are scheduled to hang him at 10; your presence for the Inquisition will be part of the official record, and your name, your title, and your former position as a Hand of the Divine have been recorded, per your request.” The captain does not bother to keep the curiosity from his tone, the question that he wishes to ask barely concealed. But he is well versed enough in the Game that he refrains. “We will organize his guard for transport in about twenty minutes. Would you like to step below stairs and speak to the condemned before we begin?”

“Yes, thank you, Guard Captain,” and she moves to follow him into the maze of cells. With the unrest in Orlais after Gaspard’s ascension, the cells are full of petty and hardened criminals, alike. She passes by them, ignoring their curious stares at the Watchful Eye heraldry on her cape and the Inquisition heraldic shield on her breastplate. They wind around the corridors until they come to a turn that dead ends into a small block of cells along an outside wall. These are empty, except for one.

The captain gestures to a guard who has been trailing them to set down a chair he carries from the office above. He sits it in the hall well out of arm’s reach of the bars. The guard then salutes them and moves past Cassandra to the turn off the corridor: just out of sight, but within calling distance. The captain clips his heels, bows a military salute, murmurs, “Lady Seeker,” turns, and leaves.

She gathers a steadying breath, feeling the pull of the air into her lungs and the push of her chest against her breastplate. Raising her head, she stalks calmly into full view of Rainier’s cell.

The look on his face is one of surprise and slight trepidation. He stands—he had been sitting on the floor with his back to the wall—and bows deeply. “Lady Cassandra, you are most unexpected.”

She stares at him, taking in the sight of his beard, soiled clothes, muddy boots. She grunts an acknowledgement of his statement and raises on arm toward the corridor she has come from. “Lieutenant!” she calls. The guard that has stayed around the corner quickly appears. “Bring water, soap, a razor, linens, and the pack that I left in the office, now.” He sketches a quick bow and disappears quickly.

She sits in the chair provided and motions for Rainier to do the same. He sits on the slab that serves as a bunk.

“The Commander indicated you had been beaten. I trust the healer has helped?”

“Yes, Lady Seeker.” Curiosity shines out of his face, but he holds his questions to his chest. She admires his restraint; the only thing left for him now is to decide how he meets each moment as he no longer controls what is to come. She sees the shift of tension in his forearms and speaks to the question she imagines is in his mind.

“I am here to represent the Inquisition, Thom; justice must be seen to be done and witnessed.” She speaks it gently and she watches the fight go out of him, his shoulders relax and his breathing slows. A shot of admiration kicks through her gut as she recognizes that he did not want her to be fetching him back to Skyhold. He nods his head and she thinks she hears him mumble his thanks as he bows his head and his shoulders shift with emotion that he will not let her see on his face.

She looks away down the corridor and sees the guard returning, the things she asked for in his hands except for the bucket which is being carried by a kitchen lad. The guard presents it to her for her inspection; she acknowledges it with a nod and she gestures with a tilt of her head for it all to be placed in the cell. The guard opens the lock, ushers the boy with his pail in, drops the parcels on the ground, and both exit, the guard locking the door behind him. He approaches Cassandra who has not stirred from her chair and holds out the razor to her: “It is not usual, Lady Seeker, for us to give these to the condemned, my captain would not like it. But I may leave it with you, my lady.” She nods her acceptance and takes it from him, dismissing him with a wave of her hand. The guard cuffs the boy on the back of the head who has stopped to stare at the Lady Warrior in her full regalia and hustles both of them out the corridor.

She turns her attention back to Thom who has not moved except to watch the guard. She clips: “The escort will be here in 15 minutes; you do not have much time. You should prepare.” She stands and turns her chair to face the opening of the corridor, moving it slightly down the hall so that she can only barely see Rainier’s cell in her peripheral vision. She hears him begin to move. “There are fresh clothes in the pack. The Commander and I found your change of linens when he took your things.”

Thom sighs softly, an exhalation of relief, and he grunts his acknowledgement of her statement. “I had not thought, Lady Seeker, to see anyone from the Inquisition today. It is unexpected . . .”

He trails off, and she feels a pang of sympathy and quickly puts him out of his miserable thoughts: “Dorothea is gone, Thom; she, Mme. de Fer, Varric, and the Commander left this morning at first light. I am the only one here with a handful of soldiers. I will leave the city this afternoon to see if I can catch them on the road.” Silence reigns for a beat, then two; finally, she hears him drag the bucket across the floor and the movement of water as he disrobes and cleans himself. He dresses in silence and she sees him stand near the bars, the comb in his hand as he smooths his beard and combs out the snarls.

Cassandra stands and crosses to the bars, holding out the razor. “I trust you not to slit your own throat, Thom, if you would like to shave. I have been made to understand that you were clean shaven.” She thinks briefly to the portraiture of the young, Orlesian captain she had seen in the file above stairs on the Guard Captain’s desk; it is a flicker of memory and it pulls her eyes sharp as she regards Rainier.

Thom’s eyes drop to the straight razor in her hand, but he does not take it. “The thing about ‘Blackwall’, my Lady,” he says softly, “is I have come to think of it as a title, an honorary, if you will, of who I should try to claim to be.” He meets her eyes. “You see, Thom Rainier would not be standing in this cell to hang for the Callier massacre. But Blackwall, Gordon Blackwall would. So, if it is all the same to you, my Lady, I would meet this as the finest version of myself I have learned how to be. Thom Rainier was never worth much, and he certainly never earned the affection of a brilliant woman, so I would rather be Blackwall right now, Lady Seeker, than simply Thom Rainier.”

Her fingers close around the blade and she slides it into her back pocket. She extends her right hand into the cell and clasps Blackwall’s arm in her own. He returns the gesture and they shake. A sound draws her attention and she sees the Guard Captain return with half a dozen guards. He hovers at the end of the hall out of courtesy, but she would not delay his schedule. She returns her gaze to Blackwall and speaks quietly, “You have refused a Revered Mother, Blackwall?” He nods. “May I pray for you as we walk, Gordon?”

Blackwall’s eyes fill and the tears begin to swim and then drop down his cheeks to be lost in his beard. Wordlessly, he nods. She steps swiftly back, taking the chair with her to move it out of the middle of the corridor, and moves to the far wall out of the way. “Guard Captain, I will be performing the Rite of Absolution as we walk,” and she pulls out her prayer book as she is not asking for his permission.

Wordlessly, she watches as the guards enter his cell with manacles. They attach them to his wrists, his ankles, his waist, and lead him out into the corridor; it is the walk of a traitor to the Crown, to be exhibited like this. But Blackwall stands tall, seemingly content in his destiny.

They lead him out and she follows along, reciting from Exaltations. As they pass other cells, she prepares herself for jeering from the other prisoners.

_And in that baleful eye I saw_

_The Lady of Sorrow, armored in Light,_

_Holding in her left hand the scepter_

_Of Redemption. She descended_

_From on high . . . From every corner of the earth_

_The Chant of Light echoed and the Lady of Restitution_

_Drew her shining sword_

_And plunged it into the ground at her feet, saying:_

_“All sins are forgiven! All crimes are pardoned!_

_Let no soul harbor guilt!_

_Let no soul hunger for justice!_

_By the Maker’s will I decree_

_Harmony in all things._

_Let Balance be restored_

_And the world given eternal life.”_

There is silence as they pass and her voice rings out into the stonework the words of the Maker.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _I grieve, for you_  
>  _You leave, me_  
>  _So hard to move on_  
>  _Still loving what's gone_  
>  _They say life carries on_  
>  -"I Grieve", [Peter Gabriel](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fQ3wpjdYMqk)

“Gidget, can I get you something to eat?”

Varric regards Dorothea as she shakes her head no, her knees pulled up against her chest, staring into the far distance, her back to the rest of the camp site.

Varric hesitates for a moment, then stands and finally moves away. He wishes Dorian was here. In the end, there hadn’t been a damn thing for him to do. Vivienne and the Seeker talked Dorothea’s way into the jail, and Curly came with more reports from the Nightingale. Varric just kept watch, on the edge, waiting.

He turns back to the fire and sits. He pats his breast pocket, feels his writing book, and pulls it out with his pencil stub. He begins to make a few notes, recording the feel of the weather, the quality of the light. These are always the details he forgets. The emotion, the action, those always turn out fine when he writes, but the little details that separate one day from another—did the birds sing, were the clouds fluffy or thin, could you smell rain—that is what he always forgets.

_Cool with full sunshine; the city felt warm in the sun, but the stones held a chill in the shadows, making the air clammy and damp. In the country side, on the ride, the air smelled of fresh dirt and sharp, early spring greens._

He dates the entry. He hesitates and then, after a moment, adds:

_Blackwall hung today in V.R.. Travelling back to Skyhold._

Lady Vivienne eyes him as he looks up from his paper and redeposits it in his pocket. Her face turns up in distaste and she returns to her book, some ponderous tome of magical theory. Varric tries not to sigh; it would not be helpful if he and the Iron Lady got into a row.

Curly comes and sits next to him, drinking a cup from the brewup that the soldiers started when they settled in here to wait. They wait for the Seeker and her soldiers. They had not originally planned to set a camp to wait, but the Commander hesitates to head off before she joins them. Curly stares down the road, but Varric can see him looking from time to time to Dorothea. Varric starts to ask a question, but before he can the Commander is on his feet and approaches the Inquisitor.

The man stands just slightly back behind her, his hands clasped behind his back. He appears to just stand there, not moving, just looking down at Dorothea. Finally, she turns her head slightly—Varric can just see the tip of her nose as her profile is revealed—and she asks a question.

Curly doesn’t answer. He just sits on the ground next to her, shoulders almost touching. The large man’s head dips and nods as he speaks in a low voice, too low to be overheard.

As he speaks, Dorothea’s knees pull into her chest and she dips her forehead to touch her knees. Her shoulders begin to jerk and tug as her body gives in to a first wave of grief. Varric sees the Commander raise a hand to her shoulder and he begins to slowly rub, his attention never leaving the woman at his side as she sobs.

Varric hears the Iron Lady sigh, thinks he hears her say distantly, “It’s about time, my dear.” But when he looks over to her she is reading her book, her eyes scanning the page, her actions showily not watching those around her.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _So lovely_  
>  _So lonely_  
>  _Floating away_  
>  _Oh did she let him go,_  
>  _Or did the four winds blow him away?_  
>  -"The Girl With the Red Balloon", [The Civil Wars](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N70OQhgHQWU)

“Ah, Andraste be praised,” Leliana sighs and then her brow furrows as she reads on.

“What is it?” Josephine lifts her head in query, her quill hovering in the air, carefully lifted so as not to splotch the parchment in front of her.

Wordlessly, Leliana passes Josephine the message. The cipher of her ravens has been translated by Marcus before being brought to Josephine’s study, undoubtedly as a courtesy to the Ambassador should Leliana wish to share the missive. Leliana notes she should find some of the Kirkwall lemon sours he favors; he is conscientious in all of her needs.

Josephine scans the lines quickly, stops; re-reads them, hands the missive back to Leliana. “Maker’s Breath,” she swears, putting down her quill and setting aside her letter box next to her on the divan. “If he had gone to Halamshiral, if he hadn’t protested, and she chose Gaspard . . .” Josephine’s look of horror is reflected in Leliana’s chaotic thoughts.

Leliana rubs her brow as she re-reads Chapuis’s association with now Emperor Gaspard.

Leliana had known Rainier was not quite right . . . not quite . . . _accurate_. But she hadn’t been able to put her finger on it. After Neria destroyed the Archdemon and Alistair became King, Leliana had walked back to the Chantry and left behind any connections to the Wardens. Indeed, except for Justinia, few still remembered she travelled with the Hero, connected her in any way with the Wardens. But those long ago ties had been enough: Blackwall had never seemed genuine. And that was before Alistair’s letters from Denerim, questioning that the man could have been a Warden, hadn’t been carrying the Taint.

 “I almost cannot believe she left him there,” Josephine muses, bringing Leliana a goblet of wine freshly poured. Josephine moves off to the fire: “He was a sweet man, no? Maker, it is hard to reconcile him to that slaughter.”

“Oh, Josie, as many years as you have been around the Game, you know we are never what we seem.” Leliana gently chides. Josephine gazes into the fire, sipping from her own goblet. Leliana takes one last look at the missive and tosses it into the fire. This will be one she will have to see purged from the Archive. “Do you think anyone else knows it?” Leliana asks her old friend in a whisper that she prays does not carry beyond the walls of the office.

Josephine stares at the fire, considering and watching the paper as it blackens, curls, and disintegrates into ash. “I think the best we can do is focus on the mess Rainier left us with. The Grey Warden treaties will take time to untangle and we shall watch the other,” Josephine gestures to the fire. She raises her goblet to her mouth to sip from the thick wine and her voice echoes quietly out of the rounded bowl’s depths: “Will you point this out to the Inquisitor?”

Leliana recognizes that Josephine is distancing herself from this decision and, ultimately, allowing her to control the story. It is a courtesy and an example of why they trust each other so deeply in the midst of the minefields of their duties. “No, I think when the Commander returns with her we solicit an action for dealing with the treaties, and leave the rest to the wind and time.”

Josephine nods her acceptance, glances out of the side of her eyes at the Nightingale: “She will need a focus, something that keeps her out of political realms for a time.”

“Yes,” Leliana agrees, turning to her seat on the divan and her papers. She regains her seat as her friend follows her with her eyes. “Perhaps it is time we look more closely at this Samson?”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Oh love is teasin', and love is pleasin'_  
>  _And love's a pleasure when first it is new_  
>  _But as love grows older, it still grows colder_  
>  _And fades away like the mornin' dew_  
>  -"O Love is Teasin'", [Rhiannon Giddons](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GgrkEIldnV4)

When they return, Dorothea will not speak directly to Leliana. Even for those not present in the war councils, no one can help but notice the Inquisitor’s disposition. There is a pall over the keep, and the Inquisitor is the center of its swirling vortex.

Josephine has kept the Dairsmuid delegates content in the Inquisitor’s absence, but Lady Besha has a long journey in front of her—has already spent a month in travel to Skyhold and now has waited another week while the Inquisitor travelled to Val Royeaux—and the Countess is at the end of her patience. The Ambassador does all she can, but Dorothea borders on despondent, and there is only so much Josephine can do to aid her.

It is not a surprise to Vivienne when Josephine approaches her in her salon two days after they return to Skyhold.

“I hope I am not intruding, Mme. de Fer, but I was hoping for a discrete moment of your time,” the Ambassador curtsies. It is an unexpected courtesy and immediately Vivienne is wary.

“Of course, my dear. Please, sit,” Josephine sits on the stool that Vivienne indicates, perching in delicate attention. Vivienne notices the deference and takes pity on the other woman: “I just had tea brought up. May I offer you some, Ambassador?” Vivienne sweeps toward the sideboard and pours fresh cups.

“Thank you, Mme. de Fer,” she replies and accepts the cup, “but, please, call me Josephine.” Vivienne smiles briefly in acknowledgement, but does not respond. She regains her seat on the chaise and takes a sip from her cup. Silence stretches on as the two women take in the bouquet of the tea.

In the distance below, Leliana exits out the door of Josephine’s office, walking and talking with the Seeker. Both women look fierce with determination, their own, particular variety of anxiety. Vivienne is grateful that the Ambassador has not sent one of the others to ask for her help. Neither of them would have fully appreciated the protocols of the Game as absent practitioners of them. Halamshiral had been an interesting moment to observe the Nightingale in her former domain: she shone by making her own rules, unsettling and charming all those around her. It is a tactic with its uses, Vivienne supposes, but it is certainly not the course she chose to become the Iron Lady.

The breeze begins to shift from outside, and the flue feeds the fire higher, pushing warmth into the alcove. The sun will be over the walls soon to peer into the keep: the delegation day will begin shortly. As if on cue, Josephine delicately replaces her cup in the saucer and murmurs her appreciation for the floral fragrance. Vivienne focuses on the Ambassador fully now that the woman is down to business.

“Madame, as you are aware, the Inquisitor has returned from Val Royeaux with a strong sense of sadness for the betrayal of the man known as Warden Blackwall,” Vivienne nods approvingly. It is a good statement, and one that will resonate with the Lady Besha. “We must still tend to the need of our guests from Rivain. The Lady Besha Coelho would like to sail with the tide next month from Highever. Her estates must be settled for the long summer before she retreats from the heat.”

Vivienne notes Josephine rather delicately does not identify that the Lady Besha abandons her post in Rivain for her childhood home in the Anderfells during the summer heat. How Besha has managed to maintain her grip on Dairsmuid after the Count died is beyond Vivienne’s imaginings, but it has been many years since Vivienne has been to the city and perhaps it changes with time and tide. “Of course, my dear. The Lady Besha’s goodwill must be kept. What modest way can I be of assistance?” Vivienne asks as she turns to set her tea cup on the end table next to her.

“The Lady Coelho seeks reassurance that after the threat to Thedas is resolved the Circles will, once again, be brought back to their former glory and authority. She would like for the Inquisitor to speak to her intentions of what path she will support. As you know, at the best of times it is difficult to encourage the Inquisitor to listen to these kinds of aspirations with patience.” Josephine pauses, slightly pursing her mouth, and then continues on, a ghost of a smile on her lips, “And now the Inquisitor will be able to spend less time with the Dairsmuid delegation in light of her current state of mind.”

Vivienne nods her head, and tilts it in an inquiry, “Has the Inquisitor been seen out of her rooms since we returned?”

The Ambassador holds her head aloft and slightly shakes her head no.

“I thought not. The Lady Seeker has agreed to meet, I presume, as well as Mother Giselle, with Besha. Their support for the Circles should be assured, and my presence will only help to further dispel the Lady Besha’s concerns?” Vivienne asks, looking fully at Josephine.

“I was hopeful you would join us, Madame.” The Ambassador says simply, her voice holding the deference that is not in her posture.

Lady Vivienne, the Iron Lady, First Enchanter of Montsimmard, Enchanter to the Imperial Court of Orlais, stands and takes the Ambassador’s empty tea cup, “Of course, Josephine, we must all help.” The Ambassador smiles at her radiantly and begins to rise, to return to her office, this task discharged. But Vivienne raises a finger slightly to arrest the other woman’s movement, “Of course I will require your support, in return, for the Sunburst Throne, Josephine.” Vivienne turns away to give the woman a moment of privacy to control her shock. “I imagine Leliana would have been your choice, but how can I stake my reputation on helping to guide the Inquisitor when I will not have a say in events in the future.” She sets the cup down crisply, the porcelain tinkling, pivoting to look at the Ambassador from across the room. “We both know that, at present, the Inquisitor is disinclined to listen to my advice. I can only speak to assuage Lady Besha’s concerns if I have confidence that—in the future—I will have the opportunity to see my assurances brought to reality.”

The woman rises from her stool. She firms her jaw and pulls back her shoulders in acceptance, “You have my word, Madame.”

Vivienne nods her head in acceptance, and the two part as equals, hands clasped on elbows, kisses to cheeks. The Ambassador quickly takes her leave.

They are all rather tiresome, Vivienne finds, these amateurs to the Game. She supposes the Sunburst Throne will make her content. Happy seems too strong of a hope. She crosses to the windows, picking up her cup as she moves by the chaise, standing back out of the sun that now floods the balcony. Staring into the distance, waves of Bastien wash through her. The Iron Lady does not dwell in regrets or misgivings: if she did, Vivienne knows that grief for how she let Bastien slip away while she has waited on this damn, chit of a child to save the world would pull her under.

It is that grief that she recognized on the road, on the way back to Skyhold. Vivienne supposes it was her own anguish that led her to push so hard on the guard captain in that deplorable prison. She had felt rage—sincere and sharp—when he denied access to the Inquisitor; her answering response was to bring the full might of her regality from the Imperial Court to bear.

Dorothea had acknowledged it later as they dismounted at Skyhold.

_“I needed to see him, Vivienne. I do not know what you said to the captain, but you are the reason why he relented.” She looks lost, forlorn in a disheveled, ridiculous kind of way. “I owe you my gratitude, Vivienne. After my refusal to help Bastien, for you to do that for me, I—. . .  Thank you.”_

_I return her gaze coolly. The words are out of my mouth before I can even think to recall them, not that I would:_

_“You should not thank me, my dear. You cannot afford weakness, especially now. Best not to let it show.”_

_I pat her shoulder reflexively, without feeling or menace, and I retreat to my rooms, calling for a bath and fresh robes._

Vivienne raises the cup to her face, breathes in the floral vapor, stares out to the courtyard. Sencha tea has always been her favorite.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _No one understands you're on your own_  
>  _You're not the only one who seems alone_  
>  _We know the feeling_  
>  _Just believe me_  
>  _It's nearly morning_  
>  _Any second now_  
>  -"Nearly Morning", [Luke Sital-Singh](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mIoz6yZXbcY)

_What the hell do I do now?_

_I can’t go to Orlais. His death, the betrayal will be all people talk about and Josie will make me sit in some Maker-damned salon at some point because all she can talk about are the fucking treaties._

_I know Leliana wishes I would send support north into the Anderells, but I can’t—it’s too much responsibility and I fucked it all up once._

_Sweet Maker, I chose that one so wrong._

_The Approach._

_(pushing through lines, side by side, sweat and sand and healing potions; the oasis, guards set around the bend, on duty; a moment of privacy, so quiet, trying not to moan, keep the sound from rocketing off of the stone high above: lips, limbs, coal dark eyes with empty promises and fear)_

_No._

_I’ll send Bull; I don’t think I can ever go back to the Approach._

_The Hissing Wastes._

_The Venatori are still pushing in. I need to dig into the Deep Roads entrances. But if I do, Dorian will insist—demand—to go and … . Besides, sand in everything. No. Dorian will go to the Approach with Bull and the Chargers._

_The Oasis._

_Fuck. I don’t think I can listen to Cassandra one more time, shouting and stumbling around, her grimaces of repugnance. Damnit; besides that fucking giant is still there, stomping around someplace, lurking. I’d have to take the Seeker or Bull. No. The Oasis has to wait. Maybe Dorian and Bull could … No, just me. It has to wait._

_The Emprise._

_Too many Red Templars and too fucking cold. It won’t wait much longer. The bridge should be done in the summer. Maybe by then I could take Bull, maybe Cole. Cole. No, maybe not; too much a Spirit. Too many thoughts I don’t want to know are in my own head._

_Not Cole._

_Not Dorian, either._

_Fuck._

_Ferelden._

_I can’t go back to the Storm Coast. But Hawke said there may be something wrong, something waiting._

_Fucking Warden secrets._

_I’ll ask Leliana to take someone to the Deep Road entrance. Fucking deep dwarves. Assholes never know when to leave well enough alone._

_Crestwood._

_Crestwood._

_The Rift and that Lake still needs drained._

_Maybe._

_I could take Solas and Varric; Vivienne, too. Send Bull and Dorian to the Approach. Cassandra can do whatever the fuck it is she does. Maybe Leliana can find something for her to do. Or she can escort Besha to Highever, and then meet Harding at the Storm Coast._

_Yes._

_Maybe that._

_Maybe._

A sound ratchets her head up. She looks beyond the pool of her lamp light to the entrance of the war room. A candle enters ahead of a tall man. The fur around his shoulders lets her release her breath.

“Inquisitor.” It is a simple greeting, no question.

“Commander,” she returns. “Did you need the map?”

“Nothing that won’t wait until morning, Inquisitor, if you prefer to be alone.” There, finally, is a question. She hears it and welcomes the invitation behind it, to not be here in the gloom with no aid.

“I was simply reviewing where we should be next. The passes are clear enough to travel more aggressively. I, I would welcome your input, Commander.” She holds her chin high, her spine firm with a resolve she did not know she could still feel. “I am struggling to piece it all out.”

He nods as if he knew that would be the answer all along. He joins her, sitting the candle he has lit from Josie’s office on the map table, away from her lamp. He looks down to the map and looks at the markers she has placed and is quiet for a few moments.

“It is a good choice to send Dorian west; the Venatori continue to elude us, but you will send Bull with him, too?” he asks, his fingers tracing the route from the Hissing Wastes to the Approach.

“And the Chargers; Dorian would drink all night with them, and it would be chaos on your lieutenants. Bull will keep them all productive, and drunk only when its convenient to the mission at hand,” she shrugs, and he hums appreciatively at her observations.

“You do not want Dorian with you?” It is an open question he directs to the map.

“No. It would get too complicated. I could do without complicated for a while.”

The Commander looks at the map, his eyes shifting to Ferelden, draw back to Orlais, “Emprise? The Exalted Plains?”

“In a few months; the bridge will be done, Dorian and Bull will be back from the West, and I’ll be done in Crestwood. We should send them through the Emerald Graves on the way to meet me; Leliana said there was a lead there on Samson. I agree that he seems important, especially if he survived Haven.”

He pauses, breathing. Then says: “It is a good plan, Dorothea. Crestwood should not be too complicated; it will be a reminder of simpler tasks. You will take Solas, Vivienne, and Varric?”

She hums her agreement.

“Not Cassandra?” he asks.

She doesn’t look at him, staring at the map, pointing to Highever, “I though the Seeker could accompany Lady Coelho to the port at Highever and then meet Harding at the Storm Coast on the way back. Leliana needs information, and she will trust the two of them immensely.”

“It will keep the Seeker out of Skyhold for most of early Summer.” He muses.

“Yes,” she says, simply.

He nods his acceptance; “It has been some time since I have been in camp, but I would be honored to accompany you, Inquisitor, to Crestwood; your personal party could stand a blade, I think.” His tone is warm, and there is no rancor or judgment in it.

“Thank you, but I think it will be straight forward enough, Commander; we do not need to take you away. Besides, you will be needed to coordinate the parties in the west.” She smiles at him, tiredly, grateful for his offer.

“You will need to start considering who you want in the field now that he is gone; you will need a shield arm,” he says softly, as if his tone might ease the blow of the idea.

She nods, not daring to speak. It is not offensive, what he says; it is simply true. She watches his hand reach into his pocket and pull out a white patch of folded linen. He hands the handkerchief to her; she hadn’t realized the tears had fallen until he does.

**Author's Note:**

> Create Order #21


End file.
